


Pound

by pointsnorth



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Heavensward Spoilers, I mean I guess., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:57:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5803591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointsnorth/pseuds/pointsnorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I really don't know if the Lifestream knows about equivalent exchange.  Maybe it's just bad at maths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pound

Crystals endless crystals stolen (no, rightfully taken back, no...reappropriated?) from the Ixal, endless busywork as a distraction for them the ones who took him away and they march onwards and give him more and more crystals with a smile.

All he has to do is nod back and give them money. He doesn’t have much, never has, and he is borrowing now but it doesn’t matter. It’ll all be worth it, right? It’ll all be worth it. He doesn’t know the exact procedure, but he’d heard about her, Lady Iceheart, Shiva, crystals and heretics and just enough fucking belief that she became avatar frozen and he will achieve this too.

He must achieve this too.

Pointless busywork is so easy to arrange. Sylvaintel and Stephannot sometimes look at him questioningly when he orders them both off, but he smiles faintly and assures them that he’ll be quite alright for only a few bells, he just needs pelts to trade or for the Locks to be checked, he’d heard gossip don’t you know?

When will he have enough crystals? When can he stop relying on the pity of the one person who has saved him and ruined his entire life only thanks to Haurchefant (sweet, oblivious Haurchefant, ignorant Haurchefant who he loves nonetheless)? Sometimes he sits there, just sits with his cache of crystals and stares until his eyes hurt and his jaw aches and he fancies he can see the form of someone else perhaps a little too familiar. Is that the shine of sweat on skin, the same familiar jovial laugh he’d treasured for all these years?

No, an illusion. What else does it take? What else must he give up? Arms and legs, would Haurchefant love him without them? He’d have to. He’d have to love him because he’s done so much, he’s given everything else but his own blood just to try and restore him and he needs him, they need each other, that’s how life is isn’t it? When will the imaginary ghosts become tangible, worship him as he’s worshipped in turn?

The crystals, humming with energy, look so very odd when their glow gets spattered with blood. Francel looks as corpse-pale in their light as he always has.


End file.
